


Green Sprig

by Maleficar



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maleficar/pseuds/Maleficar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall falls hard for an older, more mature Lady Trevelyan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Sprig

Blackwall had expected the Inquisitor to be a young, idealistic thing, flighty and energetic and impossible to contain. Instead, he found himself drinking with an older, mellow woman, one who had seen the joys and horrors of life and wore the marks of both on her proud face. She was staid, thoughtful, taking in everything and considering it carefully. When she spoke it was with gravity born from experience and not some misplaced excited idealism.

She held herself with confidence, with assurance. When she smiled, laugh lines around her lips crinkled and deepened. When her brows drew together, the deep furrows on her forehead spoke of years spent worrying – after what, he didn’t know. The Lady Trevelyan kept her own confidences, her dark eyes full of wisdom and mystery. 

In a word, she was intoxicating.

“I never thought I’d end up in a position like this,” she said as they sipped their ale. 

He chuckled. “I don’t think any of us expected a dead darkspawn magister to rip a hole in the sky.”

“Mmm, probably not.” Her fingers, long and rough and callused, wrapped around her mug. She was a pragmatic sort, but she loved luxury. Her nails were trimmed short but she wore a lacquer on them that made them shine. It came from Orlais, and she set aside time with Leliana once a week to reapply the lacquer. “Did you know,” she said, breaking the silence with the smooth ease of someone comfortable with quiet, “that I have children?”

He stiffened. Of course she would have a family. She was far too perfect for some man not to have fallen into her thrall. “You hadn’t mentioned that, my lady, no,” he replied slowly, space the words out carefully.

She smiled, slightly. “Both mages.” That explained her feelings on mage rights. Lady Trevelyan was a warrior, through and through, as physical as he or Bull or Cassandra, but she had an enormous affection for mages and the injustices visited upon them. “Brilliant girls.” Her smile faded. “Their father died when they were young. A hunting accident. I loved him dearly.”

He felt as though someone had punched in his sternum, hollowed out his chest, and left him bleeding on the floor, dying. He had tried so very hard not to fall in love with the Inquisitor, but it was an impossible thing to avoid. She was in every way captivating. Of course she would have a family. Of course she would have a love she couldn’t let go of. 

Clearing his throat, Blackwall stared into the depths of his mug as if the ale could offer him some solace other than oblivion. “I am sorry for your loss, my lady.”

She turned to him, curling those elegant fingers against her chin, propping her head on her hand, and gave him the softest, warmest smile he’d ever received. The kind of smile men like him didn’t deserve. “It was a long time ago,” she said, reaching out with her free hand. She hesitated, then with the gentlest touch brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “May I be honest with you, Blackwall?”

She would never know how much that touch meant to him. He would take that brief contact to his grave, cherishing it until breath left his lungs and flame consumed his flesh. He would take it with him into the Fade, and that one touch would illuminate a dark and bleak eternity. “Always,” he said.

“I have been lonely for a long time.” Her fingers brushed his shoulder as she lowered her hand. She placed it on the table near to his.

If he reached out just the slightest bit, he would be able to take her hand in his. Lace their fingers. It was too much of a presumption, so he sat, silent. 

“But I find with you at my side…” Her fingers brushed his, slid over the top of his hand, and the vulnerability in her eyes slayed him. “I find I’m not so lonely anymore.”

Maker. A handful of little words and his entire world was upended. He found himself incapable of speaking.

She jerked back as though burned. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “I’ve overstepped. I—”

He caught her hand, lifting it and bringing her knuckles to his lips. “Never, my lady,” he said fiercely, making the words an oath. A promise. “I am…” He laughed, nervously. “I couldn’t imagine a woman like you…”

“Like me?” A younger woman might have taken offense. She simply sounded curious. 

He felt himself flush under his beard. “I am an old man, my lady.”

Her laughter rippled through the tavern, and she leaned close to whisper, “If you haven’t noticed, I’m no green sprig either.” She squeezed her fingers around his, a smile lighting her face. 

“You deserve someone better.” The words were out before he could stop them, and they were bitter on his tongue even if they were true. 

Her brows rose. “I think by this point in my life I’m old enough to know who and what I deserve.” She rose from her seat, pulling her hand free of his. The look she gave him scorched him, left his heart pounding, his blood burning. “Do you?”

He stared, mute. 

Canting her head toward the door, she lifted her brows. “If you want,” she said, and she left the tavern with the self-assurance of a woman who wasn’t pinning her worth on whether or not he followed her. Of course, he was helpless not to. And when he fell into her bed with her in his arms, she took what she wanted and gave what he needed. Nothing had ever felt so right.


End file.
